


Forgive Us, Father

by summercarntspel



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Idiots in Love, M/M, Vague Smut Things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-04
Updated: 2015-03-04
Packaged: 2018-03-16 06:01:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3477170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/summercarntspel/pseuds/summercarntspel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Father Mulcahy slowly begins to suspect there is more to Trapper and Hawkeye's relationship than they want the others in camp to believe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Forgive Us, Father

**Author's Note:**

> For the gorgeous Madeline! A request I have actually done. Go me.
> 
> (BETA'd and such by georgshadow because he's great <3)

Father Mulcahy smiled brightly at the nurses that passed him on the path as he made his way slowly back to his tent after lunch in the Mess Tent. As he’d mumbled his prayer and then eaten, he’d wondered where Hawkeye and Trapper had gone between breakfast and lunch, as one or the other of them almost always joined the rest of the officers during mealtimes. 

His piqued curiosity was soon sated as he saw the pair stumbling out of the Supply Tent, both looking a bit flushed, Hawkeye's hair far messier than normal.

 

“Are you alright?” he asked, approaching the two of them, adjusting his hat on the top of his head as he squinted warily at Hawkeye. “You look a little unwell, my son.”

 

The pink blush on Hawkeye's cheeks only seemed to darken at the thought, and he nervously ran his fingers through his hair, shaking his head.

 

“Little ol’ me? I'm fine, Padre... Just, uh, a little tired.”

 

Before the Father got the chance to reply, Trapper smiled weakly, head tipping to one side. “We've been, uh, taking inventory, you know, Father? There were an awful lotta bottles to get through. It sure wore us out. S’pecially Hawk, cuz he’s not so good at counting without using his fingers.” 

Father Mulcahy nodded quietly, hands in the pockets of his fatigues. “Oh, yes. I understand,” he said curtly. 

“Right, well, we're gonna head to the Swamp and try to catch a nap,” Trapper nodded, casually slinging his arm around Hawkeye's shoulders and tugging him along. “See you around, huh, Father?” 

Mulcahy watched as the boys scurried along to their tent, both still looking out of breath, Hawkeye now sporting a rather guilty expression as he ducked into the Swamp as Trapper held open the door. Without giving it too much more thought, the Father continued walking, dismissing the strange occurrence as just another part of daily life in the 4077th.

 

***

 

“What an difficult night,” Father Mulcahy sighed, sitting down across from Trapper and Hawkeye, still wearing their surgical scrubs, and took a sip of the lukewarm coffee from his mug. “I still can't imagine how exhausted the two of you must be after so many long hours in surgery.”

 

Trapper groaned his reply, his eyes struggling to stay open as he propped his chin up in the palm of his hand, allowing Hawkeye to feed him forkfuls of cold, leftover corned beef hsh from the tray they were sharing.

 

“Don't remember when it started... don't remember being done.” Trapper muttered, shaking his head like a fussy toddler as Hawkeye tried feed him another bite, chewing it slowly. “Forget it. Lemme sleep.”

 

Rolling his eyes and looking every bit as exhausted as his companion, Hawkeye ate the bite himself, visibly grimacing at the excuse for food before offering another bite to Trapper, gently pressing the fork against the other's lips. “You need to eat a little more first. C’mon, don’t fight me, Trap. The sooner you eat, the sooner we’ll go.”

 

Mulcahy smiled softly into his coffee and wondered why the two surgeons’ bickering reminded him so much of his mother and father on Saturday mornings at the breakfast table. Come to think of it, a lot of their antics always seemed so domestic…

 

Trapper blinked, eyelids heavy as he stared at Hawkeye, trying to glare at him but clearly too tired to make it look like he really cared.

 

“Yes, dear,” he sighed and gave in, somehow convinced by Hawkeye’s serious stare.

Father Mulcahy watched wordlessly as Hawkeye continued to feed both Trapper and himself, gently smacking Trapper's cheeks when the latter began to nod off, making sure at least half of the tray was cleared before he finally relented, getting up to dump it before he came back and offered Trapper a hand up.

 

“I gotta get this one back to his cot before he keels over and someone mistakes him for tonight’s dinner. After this meal, I don’t think I could stand any more bad meat.” Hawkeye smiled at the priest, letting Trapper wrap an arm around his shoulders, bringing his own around Trapper's waist to help keep him balanced as best as he could. “Night, Padre.”

 

Mulcahy nodded, smiling knowingly as he watched the two exit the Mess Tent, “Goodnight, my sons...”

 

***

 

Before the sun was barely starting to peek over the distant Eastern hilltops, Father Mulcahy entered the Mess Tent on Sunday morning, putting together the final preparations for his early services. As he arranged his sermon notes on the makeshift podium, he heard a thump and a quiet groan coming from the dark, opposite corner of the tent.

 

“Hello?” the priest asked into the darkness, hesitantly stepping closer to the source of the noise as he furrowed his brow.

 

Another soft groan was heard, then the sound of mumbles and shushing, the rustling of clothes. Mulcahy blushed, having spent enough time with the outfit to recognize the sound, stepping back toward his podium, already considering what he’d say to spare himself and the other two parties further embarrassment.

 

To his initial surprise, it was Trapper and Hawkeye that emerged from the shadowed area, wearing familiar flustered faces—the same ones the Father had seen when they came out of the Supply Tent together, an incident he had completely forgotten about until that moment.

 

“Father,” Trapper began, more ashamed than Mulcahy had ever seen him, even more ashamed than the time the priest had accidentally walked in on him and a nurse when he first arrived at the camp. “I know now’s not the best time for Confession, but I don't know what else to say.”

 

Hawkeye spoke up at that moment, a bizarre blend of apprehension and his usual defiance showing clearly on his flushed face, “Father, if you want to report us, go ahead. Report us to Henry, to God, to whoever you want... But I can't say that I'm sorry for what I've done, because I'm not. I'm not sorry for what we've done, and I hope you can forgive me for that.”

 

Father Mulcahy studied the men in front of him in silence for several moments, taking in the way Trapper shifted uncomfortably under the slight scrutiny of his gaze, the way Hawkeye settled a hand over Trapper's lower back protectively. 

In the back of his mind, he’d deeply pondered the closeness the two of them shared for quite some time, and now that it was out in the open, he knew it should’ve come as no surprise after all. A large part of him knew he should be angry… No, the Lord wouldn’t be angry at His children for such a thing, he told himself. Disappointed, perhaps.

 

Then again, there was a good deal in this place that God might’ve found disappointing. Death, destruction, senseless killing and suffering—among the countless sins committed in war, was a tryst between two sensible, decent people the biggest of His concerns?

 

Mulcahy folded his arms and pressed his knuckle to his pursed lips. The biggest crime he could see was that they’d been foolish enough to bring their shenanigans into a sacred place… however sacred a mess tent-turned-chapel in the middle of a war-torn foreign country could be.

 

“Well...” he began slowly, returning to his podium and smoothing out the top paper with the beginning of his sermon scrawled in his neat handwriting before he glanced up at the pair once more. The tension hung heavily between them. That was no way to give a sermon. Sighing tiredly, he relented. “As long as the two of you are here, you might as well stay for the early Protestant service.”


End file.
